Tristan da Cunha: A Hermit's Wet Dream

In the last few months I've been thinking about where I want to go on my OE: I want to get some money working in England and (maybe) the States, but I also have plenty of places that I just want to go visit.  Some of them are have awesome castles (The Rhine river in Germany), others are less than safe (hi Iraq, please don't kill me), and others I just saw them in a movie (step on down Bruges!).

And then there was those that are just in the middle of fucking no-where.

Introducing Tristan da Cunha.

Hidden away in the South Atlantic Ocean between Africa and South America, this British overseas territory proudly holds the honour of being the remotest bloody place in the world. 

Discovered and, rather arrogantly, named after the Portuguese explorer Tristao da Cunha in 1506, it would not be officially surveyed for another 250 years thanks to rough seas.  A chap by the name of John Lambert eventually established a permanent settlement in 1810 re-naming it the Refreshment Islands, however this was a short-lived enterprise as he died just two years later ironically in a boating accident.  Finally, in 1816 the British annexed the islands to prevent the French from using it as a base to free Napoleon and to stop the yanks from, well...they had a little war going on between them at the time, so let’s just leave it at that shall we? 

Anyway, a garrison of British Marines were posted at the island and eventually civilians started popping up along with whalers, which led to the island developing into a settlement.  Aside from being used as a secret British base in WW2, the islands got the short end of the stick as the world discovered steam power and the Suez Canal became the tits of the shipping world.  In 1961 the local volcano decided to throw its toys out of the cot by erupting, forcing the islands’ inhabitants to flee all the way to Mother England.  A couple of years later the islands were declared safe again and the hermits returned, figuring that it would be better to be burned alive by lava or shipwrecked than being eaten by a computer or something.

Om nom nom

Procrastination's a bitch

Okay so procrastination’s a bitch.

Sitting at home on a crappy August’s day with an assignment due in the coming days my brain should be going into work mode, but ahh yeah nah. You see I should be at the uni library in town, my fingers pitter-pattering away on the keyboard being constructive in the development of my assignment. But there’s one problem: I can’t be bothered to brave the rain to get there.

So, here I am sitting in the kitchen listening to the radio, a copy of Real Groove tantalisingly close, and the internet calling out to me.

And Kung-Fu puppies!

To be honest it’s pretty good that I even got this far. Hell I’ve already done a wee bit of my assignment; the notes are all around me, conveniently covering up the newspaper. But as I said before, I’m impressed I got this far today. A party the night before coupled with a cold bearing down on me made getting out of bed this morning a tough task. Also, I couldn’t help but have a little blast on the PlayStation this morning too, it was just there. Staring at me. Willing me to play. “Just one level monsieur! Shoot a few bad guys before making your mind up, please I implore you monsieur!”

Yes, I’ve decided that my PlayStation is French for today. But the Xbox will always be its fat American cousin, spitting tobacco juice into the bucket, wheezing loudly whenever it has to do any work.

Do you see what’s happening now? My imagination’s spiralling into a hypnotic state of overdrive where I can get carried away with anything that pops into my head.

It’s almost three o’clock now, the day’s practically done and I just got a text from a mate telling me to come round to for a few beers before the 21st tonight. The thought to say “bugger it, I’ll just do this tomorrow” certainly does come to mind, after all I can get (relatively) free parking in town on Sundays anyway.

I told you procrastination’s a bitch.